


To Soothe an Emperor

by Ace of Smut (AceOfShipping)



Category: Amadeus (1984)
Genre: 18th Century, Baroque, Comfort Sex, Depends on your definition of the eras, M/M, Or Rococo if you like, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Relinquishing Control, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7351732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfShipping/pseuds/Ace%20of%20Smut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Antonio Salieri, Joseph II of the Holy Roman Empire.<br/>When the emperor is disheveled, stressed, and thoroughly worn out, there is someone to whom he can always turn.</p><p>I made this as a request/art swap for a very good friend of mine, whom I adore. This is probably some of the best emotional smut I have ever written. Enjoy, mi amore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Soothe an Emperor

Antonio Salieri. Court Composer to the Emperor Joseph II of Austria, Habsburg, Germany, and more. Very, very Italian. It was really a bit of an enigma how he, of all people, had risen to this degree in an increasingly Germanified court. It was all a bit contradictory, Antonio thought, as he sat by his newest acquisition – a fortepiano – and mused. In his hand he held a very inactive quill, the ink on its tip now very nearly dried. He had been working on a composition for his Emperor, trying to make it simple, without being obviously simplified. It was nowhere as easy as it seemed. The Emperor might not have great musical zeal in practice, but he did have a keen mind, and he knew when he was being played, so to speak.

“Herr Salieri?”

A sudden voice made the composer jump slightly in his chair, although he tried his very best to conceal it as he turned around. It was one of his servants, a young footman, who had stuck his head inside the door. A little annoyed at being disturbed, Antonio sent the lad a glare. “Yes? What is it?”

“The emperor, sir.” The boy seemed to be almost trembling.

Antonio sighed, stuffing the quill a little harshly into the inkpot, “Yes, what is with the emperor?”

“He – he’s here, sir. To see you.”

That shut the composer up. The emperor rarely ever came to see him, and when he did, well, it was usually because he was… unwell. Some aspects of being a ruler took great tolls on the man, and occasionally it got so bad that someone had to help him back on his feet. That someone had, for a number of years, been Antonio. 

“Dio! Show him in, then, immediately.” Antonio very nearly swore, though he rarely ever did so, and as the boy withdrew, he scurried to find his brocade coat before the emperor entered. He just managed, and was still correcting his cravat when the door was opened. Antonio, who usually wore a broad smile whenever he could, which was most all the time, turned to greet his emperor.

... And his face fell. He bowed, nonetheless, as rules must be obeyed.

“Majesty.” His voice was serious, and he could not hide his concern. Joseph looked as though he hadn’t slept for days, which, more than likely, was very much the case. More than that, he wore nothing of his usual cheer, not even superficially. 

“Antonio, please.” The voice than answered almost broke the composer a little. The moment he was certain that nobody was listening, he hurried to his emperor.

“… Joseph…” He licked his lips – in addressing him by his first name, the emperor had made it clear that he was not here as a ruler, but as a man. That being said, it was still odd for Antonio to actually speak his name. Just his name. Nothing attached. “Please, please sit down.”

His plea was answered as Joseph silently sat in the nearest chair, which happened, quite fortunately, to be Antonio’s favourite. Thus, he knew it to be comfortable. The emperor’s quiet sigh was reassurance of that. The composer knelt by his side, his hand hovering above the other man’s for a moment.

“Do you permit?” He asked carefully. The emperor might have given clear signs that it would be, but one would be wise to always make doubly sure with him.

“Yes.” It was scarcely more than a whisper, but it was all Antonio needed. Gently, and with all the care in the world, he took Joseph’s hand, turning it so that the palm was facing up. Then, he kissed it. Slowly, slowly, his fingertips began running along the lines on the exposed palm, then the outline of the veins in the wrist. Joseph sighed, and when Antonio looked up, his eyes had fluttered to a close, and he was looking far more relaxed. Thus, the composer dared.

He stood up, prompting Joseph to open his eyes slightly to look at him as he swung one leg over him to straddle him. He was careful – he had to be. The slightest hint of rejection, and he would have to oblige. Man though he might be, Joseph was also the emperor. He was used to being obliged in every way.

Joseph raised his hand, placing two fingers under Antonio’s chin to urge him closer, closer, and closer still, until finally, their lips met in a chaste kiss. People did say that Italians were the best lovers, but one thing the composer had never imagined when he came to Vienna; that he would end up proving that to be true. With the emperor, no less.

He pressed a little against the other man’s lips, urging a response, which he got. Joseph parted his lips, just slightly, and Antonio could deepen the kiss in the gentle, almost submissive, way that he knew the emperor liked. He was attentive, he knew he had to be. He let his lover take the first steps.

Joseph was the one to begin their disrobing, when his fingers entangled themselves in Antonio’s cravat, forcibly untying it before pulling it off and attacking the buttons on his coat. The composer smiled lightly, before taking over the task. Soon enough, they were both dressed only haphazardly, Joseph’s shirt still hanging from his arms as Antonio lavished his attentions over him. Peppering his face and neck with kisses, letting his tongue make a trail down, over his collarbone, and swirling around pert nipples, the latter earned him a very satisfying royal moan. He slid down on his knees before Joseph, deft fingers undoing the clasps on his breeches, and freeing him from his constraints.

Antonio had barely begun his work, when he felt Joseph shift and a hand was placed on his cheek, urging him to stop and look upwards. The emperor, his eyes clouded with lust, looked down at him.

“Antonio…”

“How do You wish it?” the composer had an instinctive understanding of his master, but sometimes, he needed to hear it. And Joseph obliged, whisperingly relaying his request, his desire. Antonio was more than happy to oblige. They both rose and moved, the fortepiano now destined to serve a different purpose.

Antonio was gentle, his touches feather light as he slowly undressed Joseph properly, constantly aware of any signs of discomfort. There were none – his emperor was strong, as one leading troops should be. Before long, he was tenderly working Joseph open.

Sweet scented oil was good for more than just perfume.

He moved attentively, tentative in his ministrations, and it was not until he elicited moans, and shivers of pleasure, from Joseph with every stroke that he dared go further. He slowly entered him, careful with every millimeter. Wincing as he had to restrain himself, Antonio finally found himself fully sheathed. The absurdity once again hit him. He was making love unholy love at that, to one of the most powerful men in Europe. And he was relishing it.

“’Tonio…” The nickname, almost an endearment, rolled off Joseph’s tongue with seeming ease, and it made Antonio groan and begin to move, slowly, at first, more for his own sake than for Joseph’s. His emperor was more used to pain than the composer was to this… glorious sensation.

They loved in silence, so much as could be done. Joseph was no vocal man, but Antonio could not keep silent. Whispering endearments in his own tongue against the smooth skin on his lover’s back. He let his hands wander where they willed, searching out scars and sensitive spots that sent Joseph’s head spinning, or so at least it sounded. The usually quiet, stern man began to soften, even melt under Antonio’s ministrations. Long-tensed shoulders relaxed, a strong, stern body, shaped with sharp lines through decades of bearing the weight of entire kingdoms, softened under his hand. Joseph allowed himself to get lost in the perfect, musical rhythm that Antonio kept. The hunt for pleasure subsided.

This was now about pure trust. The emperor laid his naked body at Antonio’s feet, so to speak, and declared without a single word his complete trust, complete surrender. This was why he had come. Why he always came to Antonio. Trust. And the Italian never betrayed that, not with a single careless touch or word. Never. Their love was here, between the two of them, for no one else to see or know about.

Joseph began shaking just slightly, and Antonio was prepared. He knew the routine. He knew that they would come, the tears. With utter liberation, relinquishing of all control, they came. Tears of complete relief. He gently wrapped his arms around Joseph, one around his waist to hold him up, the other around his chest, hand above a rapidly beating heart.

“Shh, Joseph, mi amore.” He gently whispered, placing a kiss at the nape of Joseph’s neck, “I am here for you.”

Wordlessly, the other man grasped the hand above his heart, holding onto it with an almost desperately tight grip. Their lovemaking slowed slightly, became gentler, more sincere. In these moments, they were truly, Antonio thought, making love. He clutched Joseph tightly to himself, and Joseph accepted all that was given to him, relenting control completely.

After a few long moments – glorious moments, that Antonio wished could be hours – Joseph’s body began shaking in a different manner, and the man tensed for a second as he came, crashing down from the pinnacle of bliss and relief that he had managed to climb. With him, as though he had only now been given permission, came Antonio. Breathing heavily, they stood in complete silence, just feeling themselves come back to earth.

They didn’t speak when they dressed, they never did. The Italian was convinced that he was merely an outlet, that he gave the emperor what was required, and that was all. Thus, he never said a word. Had it been anyone else, he might have declared the deep love, for love it was indeed, that he felt, or tried with sweet, carefully chosen words to convince the other to stay. But not the emperor, no. That could never be.

And Joseph never spoke either. Antonio took that as further evidence backing his conviction.

Not this time, however.

“Antonio, I…” 

The moment’s hesitation left the composer unsure of whether he had really heard what he thought he had heard, or whether he had imagined it. Whether it was a fantasy.

“I am sorry that I cannot offer you more than… this.” Joseph continued, gesturing to themselves, the room, the situation in general, “You were not intended, nor foreseen. It is difficult, as you are not…”

“- a woman. Yes, I know majesty.” Antonio completed the sentence that the emperor was seemingly unwilling to.

“Indeed.” There was the stern man again, the one who ruled kingdoms, who controlled an empire. Antonio almost felt sorrow at the loss of vulnerability from the other man.

“However, majesty, I will gladly settle with what you do give me.” He already had settled, as a matter of fact. Years ago he had come to terms with what they were, which was, when it came down to it, little more than tangled sheets and the occasional heated meeting.

“Thank you.” The whisper was almost pained, a resurfacing of the vulnerable, trusting man. Of Joseph. And before Antonio had a chance to reply, he was silenced by a gentle, unexpected kiss.

With that, Emperor Joseph II left his court composer dazzled and befuddled, his head buzzing with an oddly pleasant state of confusion.


End file.
